In the early morning, in that place between Mass and darkness,
the cathedral is quiet. Candles burn like prayers.
You light one, and then another. And another still.
There are not enough of them for all the loss
so you simply light all you have. Trusting
God to know.
You leave before the first candle begins to flicker out.
Preferring the light to the dark,
in search of more candles,
About this poem
It is an overwhelming time. There are never enough prayers. And so we pray.
This one was hard to know where to stop. Some poems are like that, you blather in keystrokes and then you have to carve away the fat to find the meat.